


The Thirteenth Guest

by ladyofrosefire



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Curses and Blessings, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, fairytales - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Ten days after the birth of Vex’ahlia and Percival’s first child, Artagan walks through the doorway.My entry to the Folk Tales of Exandria
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76
Collections: Folk Tales of Exandria





	The Thirteenth Guest

Ten days after the birth of Vex’ahlia and Percival’s first child, Artagan walks through the doorway. From there, it is a simple question of taking another step. He lands on the border of the Parchwood. It smells like magic and the wood smoke that drifts off of the nearby town. Perhaps it’s a city. It does not matter. There is a celebration he has to attend.

This world does not look the way that he expected. It’s very white at the moment. The sky is grey, and the bare branches crisscross it like iron bars. It’s also cold. In all, it’s… rather disappointing. He can walk across the tops of the deep drifts, his hands tucked into his trailing sleeves, his green hood drawn up. He keeps his Glamour drawn in around him. It would be unfortunate if someone were to run ahead and tell certain someones that he was on his way, after all. Perhaps a little good company is exactly what this underwhelming day needs.

He makes his way through the small city to the courtyard of the castle. It’s been hung with banners carrying what is presumably the de Rolo crest. The whole square smells of magic, and quite a bit of it. The gathering seems to be of more well-dressed people— a man in flowing purple robes, a woman in blue standing beside another in armor. There’s a man in what he guesses to be a guard’s dress uniform, standing at attention for all that he’s unarmed. A noblewoman with white streaks in her hair stands next to Percival and Vex’ahlia, and the rest of Vox Machina clusters around them, less one supposedly unkillable half-elf. That’s a pity. Seeing him again might have been interesting.

It’s the Druid who notices him first— Keyleth, that was her name. In a moment she goes from teary-eyed and smiling to tense, glaring across the frozen stones to where he stands. Her companions follow her gaze. The big oaf reaches for his ax and Scanlan reaches out to set a quelling hand on his knee.

How quaint.

Guards along the walls raise crossbows. At a gesture, they freeze in place. He flicks his gaze up to them, and they turn to point their weapons at one another. Then Artagan turns his attention, if not his full focus, back to Vox Machina and their little group of friends. Now that he does not have to hide, he sheds the Glamour— or, some of it. There’s no need to show them any more than they know already.

“What a lovely celebration!” he greets them, gliding forward, “So kind of you to complete the doorway in time for me to attend. And who is this?”

Percival steps in front of Vex’ahlia and the baby she holds in her arms. His expression is pleasant enough, but his shoulders are tense. “Our daughter. We had no idea you’d be interested in attending her naming ceremony.”

“Yeah,” Scanlan mutters, “or we would have held it in a church.”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever been in a church… Maybe I should try it.”

“There are some lovely ones in Vasselheim,” Vex’ahlia offers.

He hums quietly. When he moves to step around Percival, the whole of Vox Machina shifts as one. The big one— that’s right, _Grog_ — unslings the ax. The rest of them are more subtle, although he sees the glint of magic at both Keyleth’s and Scanlan’s fingertips. Their friends begin to move, as well; the armored one loosens an overly large sword in its sheath, the guard backs up. The two in robes flex their hands.

Artagan heaves a sigh. “Really, there’s no need for all… that. I simply want to see the girl. After all, it is thanks to me that you were able to have her at all.”

All of them together might be enough; Vox Machina managed to seal away an ascending deity. He watches Pike tense, watches Keyleth grit her teeth. The bear growls. Artagan briefly considers turning him into something. Instead, he reaches out and moves Percival out of his way.

Vex’ahlia, to her credit, remains precisely where she is. Saundor had not broken her. He wonders what would, or if she has been broken already and pulled herself back together. Then he lowers his gaze from her face to the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

The baby is a little red-faced thing. Tiny and helpless. She has her mother’s pointed ears, her dark eyes. The dusting of dark fuzz on her head is hers, too. No fae child would look so awkward.

He waves a finger in front of the infant’s face but gets no response. “What are you calling her?”

When he looks up, Percival has smoke curling out from under his collar and the cuffs of his coat. “You’ll understand if I don’t want to answer.”

Artagan steps forward and leans into his space. The smoke smells like the shot from his guns, none of which are on him at the moment. Silly little mortal, coming and challenging him unarmed. His smoke and his little tricks are nothing to someone like him. And now that he thinks of it, he owes Percival for that little _stunt_ with the threshold crest.

He smiles and lets his Glamour crack enough that they can see how it stretches unnaturally wide across his face. The sharpness of his teeth.

“Hey!” That’s Keyleth shouting. Her hands ignite on the wood of the staff she carries, and the air fills with the smell of ozone.

Grog’s eyes burn red. A white glow begins to build around Pike’s tiny form. A third eye opens on Scanlan’s forehead, pulsing violet.

All at once, the air behind him feels like summer. The frost on the walls evaporates, and he turns to find Vex’ahlia standing ringed in blazing light. The child in her arms is unharmed, staring up at her mother with wide eyes. If she fears her father’s display, she shows no sign of it.

Artagan tosses his head back and laughs.

He can feel the shift in the people around him, all of them ready to fight and now unsure. He doubts any of them want to start violence with the little one so close.

“Oh, I understand. But surely you’ll allow me to give the little one a gift?”

“What sort of _gift_?”

He almost sneers. Paladins. So forward, so self-righteous. At least the wizard by her side has more sense. She reaches down and sets a hand on the armored woman’s shoulder.

“We’re quite curious,” the man in purple steps forward smoothly. He is the only other one here carrying magic in his blood, its sweetness cutting through the musk of his mortality. “We’ve heard _stories_ of course, but it’s been so long since any of… the Gentry have bestowed a gift of any kind.”

At least he knows proper respect.

Keyleth pants, her grip on her staff white-knuckled. But she holds herself back. How adorable.

“What is your name, little one?” he croons.

This time, he lets sparks trail from his fingers, purple and turquoise dropping to dissipate inches above the baby’s nose. She wiggles in her mother’s arms.

“I want your word that you won’t hurt her,” Vex’ahlia demands.

“And that no one under your power will hurt her, either. Neither are you to knowingly or deliberately place her in a scenario in which she could come to harm,” Percival adds.

Impudent little mortals. But the limits are reasonable, and he can still maneuver within them. Artagan shrugs. Then he taps the child on the forehead.

“Agreed.”

Power flows out of him. It twists down the lines of the words that just spoken, the deal her parents have forged for her, and stops hovering just around the child.

“Her name?”

“Vesper.”

It is enough, but only just. Enough for a foothold. Artagan draws his hand back, leaving the child’s hair shock-white. He turns away from her mother’s grasp and her father’s low whisper and finds Pike. She gleams, still. The light condenses into a pair of feathery wings.

“Well,” he makes a sweeping gesture, “go and check on her. I know you want to.”

“If you hurt her—”

“I couldn’t! I swore not to!”

Pike’s eyes narrow. Then she hurries past him and flutters up to set her hands on the child’s face. The glow of divine magic nudges against what he’s left of his before fading. It finds nothing, and they will continue to find nothing.

He leaves. Artagan pushes at the group’s awareness, guiding them to the child to fuss and coo and wonder. No one stops him as he walks back out of Whitestone.

Dramatics aside, or dramatics included, there’s something to be said for the entertainment value of meddling. Not everyone could be as exciting as this group, but they have retired. There would be far fewer adventures, at least for them. Perhaps that child, someday, will seek him out. Or perhaps he can find others. Other adventurers, mischief-makers, curious souls. Lovely, bright people who can alleviate the numbing boredom that settles in through the millennia. And there are other types of magic here. The sorcerer’s arcane sweetness is adorable but familiar. And the familiar becomes dull. But divine magic…

Perhaps he would try becoming a God.

Artagan draws up the deep green hood of his cloak and vanishes.

**Author's Note:**

> The author thrives on comments! 💚💚💚 
> 
> Come and join us on the writing discord, [Haven!](https://discord.gg/WPywUy7)


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